Dead Andy

During my tenure in Manhattan, I lived in just three different apartments. Most other people caravan around the island like nomads. There’s always a moving van blocking traffic close to the first of the month. Then there’s the ambulance chasers on the lookout for new digs. These opportunists stalk ambulances that pick up (usually) elderly people, then ask onlookers which building the person lived in and specifically which apartment. It’s morally disgusting but it happens all the time.

When I moved out of one of my apartments, the dwellers on either side of me came out to say they’d miss me, and that I was such a good neighbor. I wanted to ask what the criteria was but I didn’t know their names, even after seventeen years. Nonetheless it was an ego boost as I moved into my newly purchased home.  

The rite of passage from renter to owner!  

Older buildings have creaky floors, hisses from radiators and very thin walls shared with complete strangers. In some cases, you wish they remained complete strangers. When surrounded by four apartments, you hear a lot of things you don’t necessarily need to, while also becoming a little neurotic about what they’re hearing out of yours. 

Now there’s usually a policy that 80% of your floor has to be covered in rugs, but no one ever pays attention to it. Old squeaky floors suck, but if your pattern is decent you want to flaunt it. A herringbone pattern? That’s showtime! 

The apartment (4E) we bought was over a hundred years old. There was a dumb waiter in the kitchen and an ice box built into the wall. Since this was my first time as a shareholder, I abided by the rug rules carefully. These people were my business partners as well as neighbors. 

While I met the husband and wife in 3E, I didn’t meet 5E for a while, and once I did it was under the strangest of circumstances. Here’s the tragic plight of Andy, or as I occasionally referred to it, the day the music died.

Andy was married to a CIA or FBI or some other hush it up government agency. She was stationed in Pakistan. Andy spent most of his time there. Twice a year he’d return to New York to renew his visa. He was a major lead foot so his presence was never in question. His stays lasted a week or two at best. No big whoop.  

Andy completely ignored the 80% rug rule. You’d think since he spent most of his time smack dab in the center of Rug country that he’d be more padded than a sports bra, but alas he was not. He must have had limited seating, as he was a pacer, and of course his floor boards squeaked. He had this one particularly annoying habit of getting stuck on a board right over my bedroom that really squeaked. He’d sway back and forth on this particular board like a seesaw, probably stoned. He’d stay on the joy ride forever unless I shouted “MOVE ANDY MOVE” and miraculously he would. It’s quite likely the weed encouraged his attentiveness.

So it’s Memorial Day weekend and we’re heading up to Maine. File this next goody under “you simply can’t make this up”. If I was in grammar school, I could have brought the house down with my “what I did on my summer vacation”.

The summer of 2010 wasn’t off to a great start. Weather patterns were increasingly more consistent with global warming which spells just plain old grossness in New York. The air gets heavier. People get heavier. Their scent gets heavier. You can smell last night’s dinner on them. It’s a great time to escape and smell the ocean. Just the ocean.

America’s Vacationland. Maine is the antithesis of New York. The weather’s cool and crisp and the beaches sparkle like salt. There’s no pressure to do anything more than get ice cream after dinner, which is great because there’s not much more to do than that. It’s so quiet at night I need a sleeping pill to block the deafening silence. No one on top of you, no one underneath you or to your right or left. You can discharge any bodily function without hesitation.

The village of Ogunquit is quaint as hell and has over the years developed into a gay friendly destination. So why do the khaki sport’n preps and their little mongrels invade it like they invade every once upon a time gay haven?  

Gays flourished in Greenwich Village for decades. Then they were priced out by the straights and had to move north to Chelsea and start from scratch. They decked the halls then experienced the same result. So they migrated again to Hell’s Kitchen where they currently reside.  

We’re running out of crappy neighborhoods to glam up. Leave somewhere for us to hang our beret other than a hook on the nicotine stained walls of the Stonewall Inn.  

But back to our vacation in Maine. Sadly my partner and I are allergic to shellfish, so smelling the best shellfish on the East Coast and not being able to crack into it is cruel. It’s hard to order a roasted chicken when you see the folks at the next table bibbed up and smothered in butter.  

We antique shopped in Kennebunk. I lost a crown on a piece of salt water taffy, and most importantly just winded down our MPH to greet the slower pace of summer. After a relaxing time in Maine, we returned home rejuvenated. 

Home sweet home with no squeaks = no Andy.  

What perfect timing.  

The weather started to heat up the first week of June, not hot enough to install the air conditioners but just enough to open windows. Well, a rancid odor permeated throughout the building. Since it came from our corner, lots of people flashed looks of judgment my way in the elevator. 

It’s Sunday about 5:30 AM. A loud knocking on the front door scares the hell out of our dog to the point she aborts her usual barking in favor of hiding under the bed. 

“Mister Namian, it’s your supra. Your neighbor, heeza commits the suicides.” 

My first thought was “that fucking asshole”. The Hudson River was a block away. Just dive in it.

Here comes the FBI dusting Andy’s apartment as his wife gathered some sort of intelligence. I wished her intelligence had kicked in when she married Dead Andy. 

Several pairs of feet were squeaking all over the place, then my ceiling shook violently when the agents cut the rope and Andy’s corpse fell to the floor right over my bed.

I threw up. 

Here’s where things get dicey. While I could identify Andy by his footwork, I only saw him once. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Willie Nelson, with red and grey hair in a waist length braid. 

Post-hurling, I had a disturbing image of his lifeless body laying on the floor over my bed. Was he in a fetal position? Had he broken one or both legs when he hit the floor?

The FBI dusted for a good three hours. Then a gurney rolled down the hall, retrieved Dead Andy then rolled back out. It sounded like a 747 taking off from Laguardia. Worse was the image of Dead Andy strapped to a gurney standing up in the elevator, like Hannibal Lecter in Heidi braids. Andy and fashion flair was a big thumbs down.

We packed up the dog and went to my parents for the day. We opted out of the elevator and took the stairs. (In fact, I took the stairs for several months thereafter.)

I didn’t sleep much that night. I stared at my bedroom ceiling conjuring up scenarios.

What if he didn’t empty his trash and ordered the shrimp and brown rice from the Chinese take out for his last supper? What if he left a faucet on? What if he clipped his god forsaken toe nails before he did the deed and they were scattered over his barren floors, feet away from me?  

Gross I know, but this is my home. All I’ve got.

For a while my inner Sherlock Holmes revisited all the things performed in our apartment while Andy hung dead right over our unsuspecting heads.

I made a tuna melt.  (Andy was dead.)  

I cuddled the dog.  (Andy was dead.)  

We had kick ass sex. (Andy was dead.)

As the dog days of summer day passed, I sensed increasing resentment from the co-op people. I noticed small groups scatter as I approach them while walking the dog. The atmosphere in the laundry room grew thicker, so I sucked it up and had my laundry sent out regardless of the cost. I’m a typical Democrat, throw money at the problem and walk the other way.  

But I knew what they were thinking and saying behind my back ... that I was indirectly responsible for Andy’s death. I egged him on. Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.  

Andy had sleeping patterns that were beyond annoying. I’d get home on a typical workday in time to hear his feet swivel out from under the sheets and hit the floor and creak his first floor board around 6 PM. He’d pick up the pace around 9 while we were eating dinner and be in a full blown trot by bedtime. Exactly where he was trotting to wasn’t clear. Just arbitrary trots from the front of his apartment to the back. He never left the apartment and never had visitors. Andy’s Hotel California.

Andy’s hotel had plenty of vacant rooms. He seemed to accumulate imaginary friends during his residency. After a month in solitary confinement, he had virtual church pews to preach to, his favorite sermon being very anti-American.

Andy had much to say (to himself) about the United States and its foreign policy toward his beloved Pakistan. I love a non-participatory US citizen full of criticism, especially after midnight on a work night.  

Talk about shitting where I’m trying to sleep.

By dawn’s early light, I’d have enough of his crap. And yes I would spout and shout commentary through cupped hands aimed toward his unpatriotic whereabouts.

“GO TO BED ANDY, you fucking moron.”

“Get a job Andy. I work for a living to earn my opinions.”

Or my early morning favorite ... 

“McDonald’s is hiring Andy. Go stuff an Egg McMuffin.”

In his defense, Andy eventually responded to these routine tirades and went to bed, usually while I was shaving. Perhaps it was the visual of me clutching a sharp razor.  

Then he’d sleep all day long while I hung on a subway strap, battled the eight and half million tax payers, dealt with the lunacy at work, then rushed home just in time to catch Andy’s next curtain rise. (Oh and he smoked like a clogged chimney.)

So there you go dear neighbors.  

Maybe I egged him on. Maybe I didn’t.  

I never sought details surrounding Andy’s demise. I easily could have greased the Super to script a show stopper of a story, but I figured in this instance ignorance was bliss. I was sleeping under a crime scene and (by July) addicted to Ambien. But at least it was quiet, albeit eerily quiet.

I worried about the day we put our investment up for sale. The gentrification of the neighborhood was in full swing and property values were consistently appreciating. News of a suicide in 5E might have impact on the value of 4E.  

Weeks after Andy checked out of his Heartbreak Hotel, we found it strange his wife never came home for closure. So, a co-op board member with way too much idle time decided to have memorial service in the lobby. WHAT?

Making matters worse (which was clearly the theme with this sordid mess) my partner (Mr. Nice Guy) not only confirmed that we would attend but bought a fucking card.  

I had no idea Hallmark designed a sympathy card suitable for suicide, especially when the victim left no survivors behind. Just a wife or some sort of significant other conveniently stuck in Pakistan. Props to Miss Anonymity.  

“So who do I address the card to” he asked.

I glared at him over a freshly poured glass of cabernet long enough to indicate a flaw with the entire concept.

“How do we sign it,” was his next question.

“Well now isn’t that a pickle,” I said. Nothing viable came to mind. I mean come on, none of this was viable.  

What could one say? Condolences from 4E to 5E? Better luck next life? Down in the lobby, four screwballs huddled around a laptop with a picture of Dead Andy.

“Does anyone have something they’d like to share?”

“A good neighbor who loved this building,” said the sap from the co-op board that organized this ridiculousness.

“I took him grocery shopping once and he seemed to dig frozen foods,” said another.

An older woman from 6B just shook her head in disbelief.

I forfeited my chance with a wave of the hand. And so the memorial service concluded just a tad over one minute.

A few months later, his wife showed up but not with funeral arrangements. She showed up clutching blueprints for a complete demolition of the unit. For months, I endured pounding, crashing, dropped radiators and dust. What I would have given for a little soft shoe from Andy now. 

Bring back Mister Bojangles!

Once finished, she rented it to a young Wall Street dude who started his day on a treadmill (no mat underneath it). Friday nights were party night with hundreds of twenty somethings sloshing around.  

Andy’s revenge from the other side.

One man’s death bed is another man’s bachelor pad. The new guy wasn’t quite the lead foot Andy was, but man did he put on quite a sex show in his squeaky coiled bed.